Billy and I were startled, this morning, to hear on the news that there had been a fire just west of us.  An island had gone up in flames; the homeless people living on it had had to be rescued, and one of them was badly burned.  It happened early in the pre-dawn hours, but still,we were surprised that we had not heard a thing.

After breakfast, I walked downriver on the levee (trying to avoid foxtails; no such luck) to see where it had happened.  We figured it was on what we think of as Jack’s Island, after the transient who lived there for years until he was stabbed to death.

I walked almost to Chester, but since the pups were with me, I didn’t want to take them too close to that busy road.  From where I was standing, I could see no sign of fire.

Of course, the fire was most likely down at the very western tip of the island, obscured by trees.  Things are still green enough that it wouldn’t have spread too far.  The news was describing it as a grass fire at first, but later as a brush fire.  That would be more accurate.

It’s easy to see what must have happened; an unseasonably cool night, the transients building a fire — and it getting away from them.  Apparently all but one rescued themselves, wading through chest-deep water to the riverbank.

It won’t be the last fire in the river bottom this year.  Maybe it’s just as well that PG&E is going to take out those last few eucalyptus trees.  I remember during,the last big fire, with spirals of flame seeming to reach almost to the power lines overhead, thinking that they would burn like torches; and they’re awfully close to the house.

We wouldn’t want to live anywhere else — but the river bottom is not a safe place.